Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (8 page)

“Get in the car, young lady,” my father said. “We’ll deal with you when we get home.”

I hesitated—we were supposed to be staying in Wilhelmsburg for a few more days. I glanced at Cricket through the foggy police cruiser window and noticed he was staring intently at me.

“
Now
,
Margaret Ann,” my father barked. I’d never seen him so angry, and never at me.

I hurried into the backseat and kept silent for the entire four-hour drive back to Dallas.

After all, I always did as I was told.

7

T
he memory fades and Hodgepodge comes back into focus. I look at Ryan. All traces of the boy are gone. Now he’s all man and devastatingly sexy, and damn if it doesn’t suit him.

“You told me we didn’t know each other,” I say, tucking the bag under my arm.

“No, I said we
hardly
know each other. Which is true.” Ryan swipes a package of gummy bears from the row of junk food displayed beneath the register, tucks it into his back pocket, and tosses a five-dollar bill on the counter near Moose, who’s assisting another customer. “Though I’m offended you didn’t immediately recognize me. I thought I made quite the memorable impression.”

“Yes, so memorable I blocked out that entire night,” I lie.

“You know, Marge, us getting arrested was really your fault,” he says with humor dancing in his eyes. “If you’d listened to me when I told you we needed to leave, we never would’ve been caught.” He steps into my personal space, issuing a challenge I shouldn’t want to meet. “Or were you still too dazed from kissing me to move? I tend to have that effect on women.”

I had been dazed, but I’ll never admit that to him. Even as a teenager he’d known exactly what to do with that mouth, and I can only imagine the things he’s capable of doing with it now after sixteen years more experience.

“I’m surprised you even fit in this store with that ego,” I say. “Perhaps
that’s
the reason we got caught.”

“Hey, wait,” Moose interjects, joining our conversation. He opens the cash drawer and slides in Ryan’s five-dollar bill. “It was you with Cricket that night at the Gansey house? Did you two share a jail cell?” He glances between Ryan and me.

“No,” Ryan says. “Joy sweet-talked the police into letting Marge go.”

“Margaret,” I stress.

“Too bad. You two could’ve cuddled,” Moose says. A man with a leather-brown neck, deep creases in his face, and a crimp in his hair, probably from a hard hat, sets a basket on the counter. Moose waves. “Howdy, Hank. How are things at the reno site today?” He moves off to ring up the man’s items.

“The officers threw you in jail?” I ask Ryan.

“Only until morning.”

“That’s a shame,” I say. “You probably felt at home there.”

Chuckling, Ryan says, “I’ve only been arrested once, thanks to you.”

“You’re that talented at skirting the law? I’m glad to see you lived up to my predictions,” I say. “Which trade school did you end up at? Or did you even go to one? Working at a vineyard can’t require that much skill.”

He clenches his jaw and gives me a hard stare. “There you go again with your silver spoon bullshit,” he says, crossing his arms, his shirt stretching tight across his chest.

“It’s like I already told you, standards aren’t the same as snobbery.” I keep my expression neutral, determined not to show how exposed he makes me feel.

He steps closer, his expression darkening. “You know, your abrasiveness should be a turnoff, but somehow it’s . . .” He pauses, as if carefully picking his next words. “Fucking alluring.” His voice, deep and low, vibrates across my skin like a caress, igniting senses I was certain had died and making me crave a much bolder, firmer touch.

“You call me abrasive, but I’m sure you mean direct,” I say, steady and strong, even though my heart continues to thrum like a hummingbird. “I won’t fault you for your confusion. No doubt you’re accustomed to passive women who exist solely to satisfy your needs and ego, so I understand it’s difficult for you to identify the difference.”

“You know what?” Ryan moves forward another step, his eyes shining with a predatory light, as if I’m something he’s about to devour. “I think you’re bored. I think you’ve been waiting your whole life for a guy like me to come along and wake you up, show you just how fun messy can be.”

I suck in a breath, my entire body tightening. I don’t want to be drawn to him like this, especially after the way he tricked me,
lied
to
me, but it’s as if I’m being pulled by an outside force. I swallow, the paper bag tucked under my arm crinkling as I press it firmer against me. “You’re wrong.”

Bracing a hand on either side of me, he pins me against the counter. “So this doesn’t affect you?” he asks.

“No,” I say, hoping he can’t sense the way his nearness is knocking me off balance.

Ryan leans in closer so I feel the warmth radiating off his body, smell his natural scent—earthy yet slightly sweet. We’re close enough that we’re sharing the same air, and if I were to tilt my chin up, my lips would graze his. “How about now?” he asks.

“No,” I say again. I ball my hands into fists to prevent myself from doing something reckless, like curling my fingers into his shirtfront and finding out if he tastes as delicious as I remember. His eyes drop to my mouth, and after a painfully long beat, he dips his head. Alarm bells blare in my mind, but they’re drowned out by the roar of blood in my ears and the slow, heavy ache spreading inside me. Right when I’m certain he’s going to kiss me, he pulls away.

He pulls away.

“You’re a horrible liar,” he says.

For a moment, I can’t do anything but blink and try to steady my breathing. Ryan smiles at me with smug satisfaction, as though he’s proven something. He’s playing with me, and I’m letting him, just like before.

The anger flares up again. Good. I need to be angry and stay that way. It’s easier to fight this attraction I feel toward him, to maintain my control. I let Nick fool me once, and I won’t allow Ryan to fool me twice.
It’s be hurt or be hardened
, I remind myself.

I square my shoulders and clear my throat. “And it’s horribly predictable that you’d equate a mess with a fun time.” I squeeze past him, ignoring the way my chest brushes against his, and head for the door.

“You’re already falling in love with me, Marge, and you’re not even aware of it,” Ryan calls after me.

Except that’s where he’s a misguided fool. I don’t believe in love.

I manage to hobble the four blocks to The Tangled Vine to retrieve my Audi and find my way back to the bed-and-breakfast in one piece. I park under a magnolia tree that I hope will offer shade come tomorrow afternoon, but with my luck, my car will probably end up littered with leaves and bird shit.

Grammy J has relocated the rocking chairs from the pile of painting supplies to the middle of the yard and is now rocking back and forth in one, staring at the rotted floorboards still scattered on the ground and drinking a glass of wine. I inhale a deep breath and walk toward her.

“A carpenter is stopping by tomorrow morning to give me a bid for the porch. I’ll pay for the rebuild out of my savings,” I say before she has a chance to speak. If I take charge of the conversation, maybe I can control it.

Grabbing the wine bottle resting at her feet, Grammy J tops off her glass and nods at the empty rocking chair beside her. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Despite the way she drags out her words and decorates them with an easy Texas drawl, there’s something assertive in her tone that makes me follow her command. My posture is rigid as I sit, my nerves frayed like the hem of my ruined blouse. I thought only my mother had the power to reduce me to a wary, obedient child.

“Appears the Scotchgard worked wonders. You’re a disaster,” Grammy J says, scrutinizing the bits of grime, rust, and paint stuck to every inch of me. She has this way of studying me as though I’m transparent.

“I’ll make sure none of the guests notices me when I head upstairs,” I say, certain she’d rather I not embarrass her with my unprofessional appearance on top of everything else.

A wrinkle appears between her eyebrows. “What are you ramblin’ on about, child?” Grammy J lifts a hand to my face and rubs a spot below my left eye, the skin of her thumb surprisingly soft for how much she slaves in the garden and around the Inn. “Hard work’s never looked bad on anyone and definitely doesn’t on you.”

Her response catches me off guard. I search her eyes for signs of amusement, but all I see is sincerity in the depths of green. “I’m not sure my mother would agree with you,” I say.

“Yes, well, there are a great many things Nancy and I don’t agree on.”

“Has she always been this way? So . . . so . . .”

“Controlling? Impossible to please?” Grammy J sips her wine and sighs, the sound far too world-weary. “Not always. If anything, Nancy used to be more reserved. Private.”

My mother, reserved?

She’s quiet a moment. Finally Grammy J smiles, but it’s loaded with a sadness that pinches my heart and something else I recognize but can’t pinpoint. Regret, maybe?

“Nancy never felt she fit in Wilhelmsburg and was always searchin’ for a way to define herself outside of it,” she says. “Always wanted to make somethin’ more of herself. A trait she passed on to you, I reckon.”

Before I can decide if I’m insulted or intrigued by the idea I have anything in common with my mother, Grammy J adjusts in her seat, the joints of her rocking chair creaking the way Poppa Bart’s knee used to, and continues. “Problem was, your mother never understood that buildin’ herself up didn’t require tearin’ others down. She was in such a hurry to trade the small-town rumors for big-city livin’ that she never noticed she traded one fishbowl for another.”

I glance around at the worn-down B&B and try to envision myself growing up here, to see Wilhelmsburg through my mother’s eyes. It all seems so . . . uncomplicated.

“It’s difficult to picture what could be so awful about this place,” I say, especially given my upbringing in Highland Park and the never-ending quest for social standing and approval.

“That’s a matter of perspective, isn’t it?” Grammy J says. “It’s no easy thing, child, knowin’ yourself well enough to decide what future you want. And even harder to risk everythin’ for somethin’ that may not happen. I think your mother, in her own way, chose the more familiar road when she went to SMU and married your father. Though I doubt she’d agree.”

“No, I suppose she wouldn’t,” I say. It’s strange hearing Grammy J speculate that my mother took the easy way out, because nothing about my mother is ever easy. Straightforward, perhaps. But not easy. Then again, if you’re like my mother, who sought out an entirely new life, I guess you’d do everything necessary to not only keep it but ensure it appeared effortless.

“Speakin’ of, your mother know where you are?” she asks, placing a hand on my wrist. She traces a pattern with her finger. The sensation is so utterly foreign and nurturing I’m momentarily stunned.

“I don’t care if she does or not.” My voice sounds strong, full of confidence I don’t feel. Grammy J levels me with a hard stare identical to my mother’s, except it comes off less threatening. The assuredness crumbles. “Maybe. If my father told her.”

“Before you get too settled, call her. I imagine she won’t be too thrilled you’re here.”

“Because of what happened between you two?”

Most people shy away when asked a difficult question, but not Grammy J. Her gaze remains steady on mine. “Yes, because of what happened.” She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t press for more. There’s an edge in her tone that tells me to leave it alone. Or maybe whatever secret they share is something I need to hear from my mother, if only I could gather the energy to talk to her.

“Now, after the day you’ve had, I think you need this more than I do,” she says, passing me the bottle of wine—a Tempranillo from Camden Cellars. “It’s from my private collection.”

I take a sip and immediately taste the essence of deep red plum, tobacco, and clove. The finish is slightly acidic with added notes of vanilla and almond, the flavors trailing smoothly on my palate. There’s a mixture of bold and refined elements to the wine I’d expect from my favorite Spanish Rioja, but never from grapes harvested in Texas Hill Country. A fact I would never admit to Ryan even if I were forced to endure a cross-country road trip sharing the backseat of a subcompact car with a gassy Saint Bernard.

Leaning back, I peer at the grass and wildflowers that stretch out around the Bluebonnet Inn, and beyond that, at the hills populated with rows of grapevines. Perhaps those acres, once raw land and fallow fields, now belong to Camden Cellars. The sun is descending like a blazing copper token, the sky streaked in pinks and oranges.

“I got carried away,” I say, waving at the porch, but damn if it didn’t feel good ripping it apart, sweating out my frustrations. Worth every bit of soreness and exhaustion that’s dragging me down now.

“I’ve seen worse ways to deal with pent-up emotion, and from the sheer amount of wreckage, there seems to be a whole lot inside you,” she says. There’s no sarcasm in her voice, just pure honesty. We’re family and practically strangers, yet she knows exactly how to read me. “But finances are tight these days, so next time work with what we have. I can’t afford for you to destroy everythin’ around here and neither can you.”

“The B and B isn’t as busy as I remember,” I say, glancing at Grammy J. Her eyes are locked on some spot off in the distance, and I wonder if she’s happy residing out here in the quiet with only the brief conversations she has with guests to keep her company.

She swallows more wine and says, “Business has been slow for several seasons now. Most of the larger commercial vineyards built lodging on the property and folks are choosin’ to stay there instead of at independently run places. Hard to compete with convenience, I suppose, though I reckon quaintness and charm should count for somethin’.”